Ink bleeds from my pen tip as my eyes scan over the lyrics scrawled across the page.

Angrily, I scratch out the words till they’re nothing but a black blob of ink. That still seems inadequate, so I wad the page into a ball and hurl it toward the wall.

I miss my guitar, not to mention my proper songbook, which is tucked inside the case. I can’t compose properly without it. It’s got every lyric I’ve ever written, every deep, dark snippet of poetry that’s ever crossed my mind doodled in the tear-stained margins. I’m furious with myself for leaving it behind in Ryder’s van, not to mention terrified he’s going to find it.

Just the thought of him opening my journal, reading my songs…

No. He wouldn’t. That’s a total invasion of my privacy.

I chew the inside of my cheek worriedly. For three days, I’ve been a tangle of emotional knots. Rage and hurt and confusion and something I don’t have a name for, something that aches in the left upper quadrant of my chest like a physical ailment.

My shifts at The Nightingale have been a welcome distraction but at night, in the small hours when the world is dark and my mind is full, there’s only one thing I want to do: write. Unfortunately, I’m finding that almost impossible without my journal.

Thanks a lot, Ryder.

If I ever see him again, I plan on giving him a piece of my mind. Heck, if he dares to show his face, I’ll—

A fist bangs against my door, rattling it on the hinges.

Oh, mother fudger. I just had to go and tempt the universe…

My breaths come a bit too fast as I rise to shaky feet.

“Who is it?”

“Carly!” Her fist bangs again. “Open up!”

A relieved breath slips out of my mouth as I cross the room to let her in. I glance at my watch. It’s four o’clock on Friday afternoon — she should be downstairs getting ready to open the bar.

“Hey,” I murmur, sliding the chain off the door. “What’s up? Aren’t you on the schedule tonight?”

“I was until I begged Adam to switch my shift.” Grinning, she pushes her way inside and plunks herself down on my squeaky mattress. “This place is looking better than the last time I saw it.”

It’s true — the first time we hung out, I’d just arrived in Nashville and my small space was a sparse, stale mess. Over the past month, I’ve cleaned up all the dust, scrubbed the rust stains off the porcelain fixtures in the bathroom, and wiped the window free of grime. I even splurged on a set of pale blue sheets and navy throw pillows I found last week in the discount section of a bargain store a few blocks over.

There’s a plastic coffee cup filled with fresh cut flowers from the park on my dresser and I’ve strategically repurposed several glossy band posters pilfered from the Nightingale trash as wall hangings. They lend the space some much needed artistic flare while covering the worst of the water spots.

Win, win.

“If you need me to cover your shift tonight, I don’t mind,” I tell Carly. “Just let me change into my uniform—”

“No! That’s not why I’m here.” She smiles at me. “I came to kidnap you.”

My brows lift. “Come again?”

“We’re going out on the town.”

I stare at her blankly.

“It’s Friday! We’re young! We both have the night off for once!” She pauses. “Plus, I got in a big fight with my sort-of boyfriend who is, for all intents and purposes, my actual boyfriend, except that he doesn’t believe in labels.” She rolls her eyes. “And now I have to put on something hot and go out dancing to make him jealous enough that he comes to his senses and commits to being my certified, label-embracing boyfriend.”

“But—”

“Felicity. I need this. And, more importantly, you need this.” Her eyes are serious. “You’ve been on the schedule practically every single night since you got here. You’ve lived in Nashville a whole month, but you’ve barely left Nightingale property, for god’s sake!”

“I explore during the day,” I say defensively. “I walk all around the city. The parks, down by the river, Music Row, The Gulch, Printers Alley. I made it all the way out to Five Points the other day and got to wander around a bit before I had to turn back in time for my shift.”

“Yes, yes, that’s all well and good, but it’s totally different at night.” She pushes to her feet. “Nashville is a city best served under the cover of darkness. Trust me, that’s when the real magic happens.”

“Magic?”

“Music.”

I chew my lower lip. “I don’t think I have anything to wear…”

“I figured as much. That’s why I brought this!” She flourishes her massive shoulder bag. Before I can stop her, she upends the contents on my bedspread. All manner of things come tumbling out — a makeup bag, several different clothing combinations, hairbrushes, and even a curling iron.

“You were carrying all that around with you?” I ask, stunned.

“My arm went numb a half hour ago.” She shrugs. “Anyway. You have a fake ID, right?”

I blink at her in shock.

“Oh, relax, I’m not going to rat you out. Isaac might buy that you’re twenty-one, but I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“Yes, I have a fake ID.”

“Let’s see it.” She sticks out her hand.

With a sigh, I rummage through my bag and yank out the flimsy laminated card. I’m blushing as I place it in her palm.

“This is a piece of crap,” she declares after less than a second of examination.

“I know.” I run a hand through my hair. “A kid I went to high school with made it for me. He wasn’t exactly an expert.”

“Clearly.”

“I don’t even drink, so it shouldn’t be an issue.”

“They’ll still card you at the door. But don’t stress. This just means we’re gonna have to sweet-talk a bouncer or three.”

“Oh, joy.”

“It’ll be fun, I promise.” Her eyebrows quirk up as my previous statement sinks in. “Wait, you don’t drink at all? Ever?”

“Never.”

“Huh. Fancy that.” She pauses. “You do dance, though?”

“I dance.”

“Excellent.” She plants her hands on her hips and evaluates me head to toe. “I’m guessing… Nineteen?”

“Eighteen,” I admit.

“A baby!” She gasps in faux horror. “I can’t wait to corrupt you. At twenty-two, as your elder, I have lifetime of sage wisdom to impart.”

“Such as…?”

“Most of the bars on Broadway have unadvertised side entrances, so you can skip the lines if you’re a local or know the guys at the door. There are three stages at Tootsie’s but the top floor is always the most fun after midnight. The bathroom attendants will treat you like a goddess if you tip them regularly. Always carry spare cash in your bra in case you lose track of your wallet. Never stand too close to the side of the buildings in the late-night district, or you run the risk of getting puked on by someone projectile vomiting off a rooftop bar.” She grimaces, remembering what I assume is first-hand experience. “If, however, you do get puked on, baking soda will get the smell out in one wash.”

I blink at her. “Wow.”

“Consider me your spirit guide.” She grabs the curling iron. “Now, are we doing this, or not?”

A grin spreads over my face. “Oh, we’re doing this.”

* * *

Carly takes her role as my sprit guide very seriously.

After dolling me up to her satisfaction — a process which includes more eye makeup than I’ve ever worn in my life and so much hairspray I doubt my curls will ever come out — she shoves me into a red dress far more fitted than the flowing sundresses that make up the majority of my wardrobe and a pair of strappy sandals I’m not entirely confident in my ability to walk in. I don’t utter a single objection, though I anticipate I’ll have several blisters by the end of the night.

A small price to pay for friendship.

We head out in search of sustenance, wandering around for a while before settling on a cute place on the main strip with outdoor seating. We soak in the last few hours of sunshine and people-watch, laughing at the tourists stumbling around wearing BRIDE-TO-BE sashes and ill-fitted cowboy hats with the tags still on. She sips a cucumber mojito as I suck down a refreshing club soda, chatting about our coworkers at the Nightingale, the bands she deals with every night, her business classes at Belmont, and her childhood growing up outside Denver. She came here for college at eighteen and never went home again.

“So, what’s your story?” she asks as we devour a large veggie pizza piece by piece.

“My story hasn’t happened yet,” I murmur around a big bite. “That’s why I came here. I’m ready for it to finally start.”

Her eyes are curious. “Well, what’s the dream?”

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone who comes to Nashville has a dream. They either want to be a star, marry a star, or work for a star. Which category do you fall into?”

“None, so far.” I shrug. “I just know I want to write songs, maybe even sell a few someday if they’re good enough.”

“You’re a songwriter, then! That actually makes total sense.” She tilts her head, chewing the straw between her teeth as she examines me. “You’ve got the tortured soul of a writer.”

I snort. “I don’t know about that.”

“Laugh all you want, but it’s true! I knew it the first time I met you.” Her eyes twinkle. “You’ve got stories to tell. I can see them behind your eyes.”

A blush heats my cheeks.

“Oh, don’t be embarrassed! It’s a good thing, babe.” She winks. “Heartache always makes for the best songs.”

“I guess that’s true.”

“It totally is!” Her smile is bright in the growing darkness. “I can tell you’re going to do big things one day, Felicity Wilkes.”

I flinch a little at the fake last name, but I don’t think she notices. “Thanks, Carly.”

“No aspirations to sing, huh?”

For reasons unknown, Ryder’s face flashes though my mind. I shake my head to clear it. I wish I could stop thinking about him, but he’s wedged himself under my skin so deep, I worry I’ll never get him out.

“No, I’m not a singer.”

“Too bad,” Carly murmurs, lifting her fingers into the air to frame my face like a camera lens. “With your songs and your looks, you’d have the total package if you ever decided to perform. They’d put your face on every billboard in this town.”

That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.

We clear our plates as the sun slowly sinks toward the horizon. The crowd on the street gets thicker with each passing moment as more and more people funnel onto the strip in search of a good time. Beer-bikes wheel by, their drunken participants singing off key as they pedal down the street like parade floats. Music fills the air, drifting out every open window in a half-mile radius as the neon signs begin to flare to life all around us.

“You can talk to me, you know,” Carly says eventually, drawing my gaze back to her face. She looks uncharacteristically serious. “If you ever need a place to pour your heart out, or a shoulder to cry on, or simply someone to take you dancing as a distraction… I’m your girl.”

“Thanks, Carly.”

She winks. “What are spirit guides for?”

* * *

We end up at Tootsie’s.

The famous Orchid Lounge, so named for its bright purple paint job, is a Nashville institution. With three floors of live music plus a rooftop bar, the honky tonk backs straight up to the Ryman and pulls in crowds by the hundreds every weekend. Everyone from Kenny Chesney to Kieth Urban has been spotted here, whether sipping beers at the bar or singing on stage. By the time we reach the violet building, the sun has set in full and there’s a line wrapped around the corner.

I groan. “We’ll be waiting an hour at least.”

“Stick with me, kid.” Carly winks and winds her arm through mine, tugging me past the front entrance to a narrow alley. There’s a towering bouncer dressed in all black guarding a side door, but he breaks into a smile as soon as he lays eyes on us.

“Carly! I didn’t know you were coming tonight. How’ve you been, gorgeous?”

“Hey, handsome! Can’t complain.” She squeezes me. “This is my friend Felicity.”

His eyes slide to mine, skittering down my frame. I try not to fidget as his gaze lingers a few beats too long at my cleavage.

Carly’s voice is flirtatious and bubbly. “My girl here is brand new to Nashville and I’m taking her for a night out on the town — naturally, I knew our first stop had to be Tootsie’s. Y’all do honky tonk right.”

“New, huh?” His eyes meet mine. “Carly was right to bring you here, we’ll make sure you feel right at home.”

“I’m, like, so excited,” I gush, doing my best Lacey Briggs impression.

Carly pinches my arm, trying not to giggle. “Anything you could do to keep us from standing in that line? You’d be our hero!”

“Ah, hell.” The bouncer winks at her and cracks the door open a few inches. “You know I’m your guy.”

She lets out a squeak of excitement but before we pass through, there’s a toll to be paid — he holds out his arms and engulfs Carly in a suffocating hug that includes some serious groping of her behind.

Yuck.

Carly doesn’t bat an eye. As soon as she’s free, she drags me inside before I’m swallowed up in his arms as well, calling back over her shoulder to the doorman.

“Thanks again, handsome!”

We cut our way across the bar on the ground floor. My eyes scan the walls, which are covered in pictures of famous celebrities dating back decades. The dark room is packed with so many people it’s hard to breathe, all drinking beers and bobbing their heads in sync as a man goes wild with an electric guitar on the corner stage. Carly barely pauses to let me take in the sight before she yanks me up a set of stairs to the second floor.

It’s a larger space, but no less crowded. A all-girl group is covering a Martina McBride song, with mixed results. Most of the audience is too drunk to care much that the lead singer isn’t entirely in tune when she stretches for her high notes.

With a grimace and a head shake, Carly vetoes the second floor and heads for the third. The crowd thins slightly as we ascend, giving me room to breathe again. We’re halfway up the stairs when the female vocalists are finally drowned out by the top floor act. The song sounds naggingly familiar, but I can’t quite place it… until we step through the archway and I get my first clear glimpse of the stage.

No, no, no.

“Carly, wait—” I yell, trying to stop her, but she doesn’t hear me over the music. And then, it’s too late. She spots Ryder, Aiden, and Lincoln on the stage and grins like it’s the best surprise of her life. Turning to look at me, she screams, “Oh my god! Look who’s playing!”

I’d be convinced she arranged this specifically to torture me, if the astonishment on her face wasn’t so completely genuine. Plus, she has no reason to think I’d have any problem being here. No one knows about my strange issues with Ryder, because I haven’t confided in anyone about them. As usual.

Like he said the other day…

Felicity, you’re a closed book. Padlocked shut. Written in code, so in the off chance you do manage to pry it open, you need a cypher key to make sense of it all.

He was right.

That pisses me off more than seeing how good he looks, standing up there with his guitar slung over one shoulder as he sings passionately into the mic, haloed beneath the stage lights. His voice echoes into my bone marrow — the same voice I’ve heard every night in my dreams for the past few weeks, haunting me like a ghost.

I realize now why the song seemed so familiar. He’s doing one of Lacey’s numbers, but it sounds totally different coming from his mouth. It’s a slowed down, simplified version and, I must say, a vast improvement over Lacey’s overdone squawking. I’m not the only one who thinks so — there’s a line of girls pressed up against the stage, jumping up and down with their eyes locked on Ryder’s face like he’s a drug and they’re desperate for a fix.

The smoldering smirk on his lips only fuels their fire.

“I had no idea they’d be here!” Carly yells, grinning at me. “How lucky is this?!”

“The luckiest,” I drawl flatly.

She links her arm with mine. “Come on, let’s get a drink!”

I nod and follow her to the bar. After elbowing our way to the front, Carly tries to flag down a bartender. All my attention is fixated on the stage behind us. I doubt he’s spotted me in this dark crowd, but I have a feeling it’s only a matter of time.

“Here.” Carly passes me a club soda, taking a hefty gulp of her cocktail. “Let’s get closer!”

“I’m good here, actually.”

She looks at me like I’m nuts. “We came here to dance!”

She’s right.

We did.

I shouldn’t let some jerk ruin my night.

I spent seventeen years letting a man dictate my every move. Living in fear of his reactions. Walking on eggshells around him, trying to make myself invisible. I watched my mother do it, too, and it never seemed to make her the least bit happy.

I came to Nashville because I’m done with that life. I’m done living in fear of other people, done caring what anyone thinks about me or the way I live.

Even gorgeous musicians with perfect hair who make my heart pound twice its normal tempo.

“Lead the way!” I yell, linking my arm with Carly’s. “Let’s dance.”